


something there

by carminnat



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Banter, F/M, Fluff, Pining, may or may not be followed up, there may be something there that wasn't there before
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 15:13:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10766865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carminnat/pseuds/carminnat
Summary: She sees it like a puzzle; beneath the ever-so obvious heavily guarded exterior adorned with the denim and the chain-smoking and the tendency to steer every topic of conversation away from himself. He sees it like a game; this girl waltzing into his life with her chin up and a smile on the verge of a smirk on her lips, challenging him with jests and cleverness he would never admit out loud indeed exceed his.





	something there

To be completely honest, when Y/N first stepped into the job, she was completely unaware of what exactly it would all entail. But she was desperate; she needed the money. And the vague description made it seem easy enough—hands-on work, filing, historical research—so she thought simply, “To hell with it.”

The job description never elaborated as far as to how ridiculously life-threatening her bosses’ ventures would be. Maybe she should’ve just walked right out the door the second she found out what she had signed up for. Maybe then, she wouldn’t be here in a motel room tending to her boss’s bullet wounds.

Luckily, she’s familiarized with him well enough. It had been undoubtedly an unlikely friendship in the beginning, considering her distaste toward Sam’s reactive tendencies and the mild discrepancies between the two of them. But as the months passed, their differences were set aside and similarities were recognized but unspoken: their passions, at times bawdy sense of humour, the uneasiness of being held up in one place for an extended amount of time.

She only wishes she has mistaken her—cough— _affection_ for Sam in place of ample respect. But she has drawn too close enough to acknowledge the fact that she has developed a crush on him like a damn schoolgirl. Still, she has done nothing to act upon it. Sure, there has been the occasional flirtatious jest here and there, but as a response to his own flirtatious habits, it should not count.

She sees it like a puzzle; beneath the ever-so obvious heavily guarded exterior adorned with the denim and the chain-smoking and the tendency to steer every topic of conversation away from himself. Yet he wears a mask of arrogance, convincing to a point where she’d almost disliked him if not for that damn charm.

Sam has also seen things—for more than Y/N ever has. The matter of being only a few years out of university on her end is an easy excuse, but he’s never held it against her. He has been guiding her throughout the whole adventuring, treasure-hunting crusade, and for that she is grateful. He’s never put her on the spot, either, except in the extreme cases that have grown far too common for her liking.

She is knelt behind him on the queen-sized bed, finishing up with the bandage over the stitches on the final bullet wound on his left shoulder.

“Done,” she says, tucking away the supplies beside her. She adjusts in her place, moving to stand in front of him.

“Thanks,” he tells her.

“Mmhmm.”

He bows his head to inspect the number she’s done on him. This particular incident counts as her third time stitching him back up. Her skills have certainly grown, but in no means are these scars going to heal pretty.

Then he meets her eyes. She nearly averts them. It has grown to be an instinct; not because she is slightly enamoured with him, but because she’s always wary of his next move as if he’d get himself hurt again. He has established himself as somewhat reactive, and she is skeptical whether or not his decisions have resulted in more negative than positive.

He holds her gaze as if he is about to say something. _Anything_. But then he purses his lips, bows his head again, and shifts on the bed, wincing at the pain in his side and shoulder. She immediately reaches out, aiding him as he lay on his back, exhaling deeply.

She lets out a short, soft laugh. “Why can’t I ever avoid this sight of you?”

A small grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Comes with the package deal,” he answers. “Besides—it’s better me than you.”

She scans over his body then: the scars scattered throughout his torso, his upper arms. She knows he is watching her, perhaps preparing for a retort about the marks riddled with stories on his flesh. Instead, she swallows, taking a wary step closer to his bedside.

“You do it on purpose, then?” she questions as light-heartedly as she can.

“I’m pretty sure, believe it or not, that it’s _them_ doing it on purpose. I’m kinda prone to getting shot at,” he responds.

Y/N smiles. “Don’t I know it.”

He chuckles. She chuckles. And then there’s a pause between them, momentarily, before he repeats, “Better me than you.”

She steps backward then. “Whatever you say, Drake,” she says. “I’m gonna get cleaned up. You get some rest, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

* * *

He sees it like a game; this _girl_ waltzing into his life with her chin up and a smile on the verge of a smirk on her lips, challenging him with jests and cleverness he would never admit out loud indeed exceed his. Most of all, he’s fascinated by her fascination with _things_ —not only of history and stories, but of nature and of people. He marvels at how someone with her amount of youthful  curiosity could be so wise beyond her years.

He sneaks a glance at her one night, when they are both dirtied and littered with scrapes and bruises after the eventful day they had shared scavenging Spanish ruins. She sits in the passenger seat of the Jeep, legs crossed, mussed hair tucked behind her ears, leaning her head on the window. The highpoints of her face are illuminated by the moonlight, but he wonders how she can decipher the words of the book in her lap through the lack of decent light.

“Y/N?” he calls out to her. She hums in question. “Find it hard to see what you’re reading?”

“Yeah,” she vaguely answers.

“Ah.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Why don’t you get some shut-eye, then?”

“I’m trying to distract myself from falling asleep, see,” she tells him. “‘Cause I feel gross and dirty and I can’t sleep this way.”

Even through her monotonous speech, he can tell she’s merely joking. He chuckles. “I hate to break it to ya, princess, but you’re gonna have to get used to it.”

“I figured that would be the case.” The smile on her lips is clear in her voice. “At least I know now what exactly I signed up for.”

“Of which includes death waiting around at every corner,” he offers. She laughs in response, so he glances at her again, brow raised. “What? That doesn’t scare ya?”

She sits up and briefly meets his gaze before he turns to the road again. “Well, I mean, sure. But you’re risking your life even by getting in a car every morning to get to work. All it takes is one slip-up.”

“Well, when you compare it to scaling ancient Spanish ruins, wherein is death more likely?” he adds. “And having mercenaries hot on your ass doesn't usually help.”

“Oh, now you’re _trying_ to scare me?”

He shrugs. “I’m just listing the cons.”

“I’m fully aware of the consequences, Sam,” she persists. “Believe me—if I hadn’t, there’s no way in hell I’d be sitting in this Jeep with you.”

A question suddenly lingers in the air between them. Really, he should know the answer to it, but seeing as he was hardly present in the process of Y/N’s hiring, it was never a case that he openly brought up to her. Now, he is genuinely curious.

“Why did you choose all of this, exactly?” he finally asks. “It’s not exactly the ideal life of a historian, if you ask me.”

She sucks in a large breath. “I dunno.” She pauses, thinking. “You ever see Indiana Jones?”

Sam’s brows furrow and he glances at her again. “I don’t know if you noticed, kid, but I got a few years on ya.”A large, goofy smile stretches across her lips, somehow triggering a faster rate of his heartbeat. He clears his throat and looks away. “Look, if what you’re sayin’ is that you took the job because of Harrison Ford and his goddamn hat, then-”

“That’s not what I was gonna say,” she quickly cuts in, laughing softly. “But if you look at it all from _that_ perspective, you get it all: far-off places, adventure. Things you’d find in stories, you know?” She sighs, almost longingly. “To me, that’s more preferable than sitting at an office desk all day.”

He is suddenly reminded of himself at eighteen years old. He had already seen and known so much, but his optimism was almost impossible to shatter. Eighteen-year-old Samuel Morgan, wanting and believing in so much more than what was expected out of him. _He_ had made the choice, and he was in no place to let any hold him back.

“And what about you?” Y/N speaks up.

“Hmm?”

“You’ve been in the game long enough,” she says. “Why not take a step back?”

He is almost immediately silenced. Y/N is not much of a stranger to Sam’s lengthy prison stint and his prominent involvement with Captain Henry Avery’s treasure. Given every ounce of intellect and compassion within her, he has far more than an inkling that she knows exactly why he hasn’t stepped away from this lifestyle.

But given every ounce of intellect and compassion she has got, he knows that she simply wants him to speak.

“Fifteen years feels like fifty when you’re in what is damn near a hellhole,” he earnestly says, voice steady and low. “When I finally got out… I’d only had ten years of ‘far-off places and adventure’ to my name, and you’d think that’s enough to convince me to settle down, but… Well, it’s kinda like what you said: see what’s out there, especially all that I missed.”

Her stare practically pierces through him. But he’s surprised. In lieu of his predicted contemptment toward her fascinating fascination, he feels a tad lighter. He turns and meets her eyes, holding her gaze as her mouth curls into a smile and she leans back in her seat.

“We’ve got some things in common, then,” she says.

He grins and turns back to the road. “Sure do, kid.”


End file.
